The Gentleman Returns
by Shellecah
Summary: In this alternate version and sequel in one, gambler Marcus France of "The Gentleman" episode seeks Matt's protection from a hired gunman after fleeing to Dodge from a crowd of card players in Wichita. Too ill from his weak heart to defend himself, France meets a new lady and starts to recover, then resolves to call the gunman out on his own, resisting Matt's efforts to stop him.
1. Chapter 1

Ivy Kenna often fancied odd things, the more so since her husband died of pneumonia two years ago. She watched from the Front Street boardwalk as the rider down the road swayed in his saddle, turned his horse toward the hitching rail in front of the marshal's office and tumbled to the ground with quiet litheness, if one could call falling lithe. The man fell with apologetic restraint, as though ashamed to make himself a bother. His hat dropped off and his mare halted and lowered her head over his, puffing her breath through his brownish blond hair.

Ivy hastened to the man and bent down beside him. Marshal Dillon and Chester stepped outside, and she glanced at them before turning her soft dark eyes again on the man. "He fell off his horse," she said, and rolled the man onto his back with ease. Despite her girlish voice, Ivy was tall and strong, not big-boned or heavy, yet not lightly built. She had a womanly figure that men admired and ladies considered elegant, and looked at least ten years younger than her age of forty-three.

Ivy thought the man had fainted, but his eyes were open. Large, wide-spaced and vivid blue, the eyes blinked at her. "Are you hurt?" she asked, resting her hand on his shoulder.

"Merely weary," he said as he lay in the dust, "but your beautiful face will save me from sinking further." He had a mellow voice with refined utterance and the hint of an eastern accent.

"Why, it's Marcus France, Mr. Dillon. If that don't beat all," said Chester.

"Yes, it is I. I fear I am somewhat altered from when I was last in Dodge," said France. Though the fall had shaken him, the sun-warmed street felt comfortable at the moment. He had accustomed himself to a dirt bed after five nights sleeping on the prairie.

His fine gray suit was rumpled and prairie dust coated him from his hair to his boots, but before fleeing Wichita with four-thousand in winnings, France had thankfully persuaded the stableman to sell his mirrored kit complete with razor and soft-soap tin. So France's complexion was bare of whiskers, stainless as a new portrait if a shade or two paler than he liked, and soft as the enchanting face of the woman hovering over him.

"Been nigh on a year, hasn't it, France?" said Matt, wondering why the gambler still lived. He had an ailing heart. When Doc told him that he'd die within two months, he asked Doc not to tell anyone else. Doc told the marshal after Matt draped France over his shoulders, carried him to the Dodge stage depot and hefted him into the coach against his will, to avert a gunfight between the gambler and his then lady friend Boni Damon's jealous former beau, Tiller Evans.

"I'll give you a hand here," said Matt. He leaned over, took hold of France under his arms and quickly lifted him to his feet. He'd lost some twenty pounds off his trim frame and looked peaked, shadows rimming his eyes. He put a hand to his forehead, and Matt supported him as his knees buckled. "We'll get you inside," said the marshal. "A rest and some food will set you right."

Ivy moved alongside them as Matt helped France step up on the boardwalk. "No need to trouble yourself, Mrs. Kenna," said Matt. "I'll tend to him."

"Please let her sit with me awhile, Marshal," said France. "She gives me hope. I feel stronger already from her presence."

"Then by all means I will sit with you, Mr. France. As long as you like," said Ivy.

"I should like for you never to leave my side, Mrs. Kenna," said France.

"Good heavens," said Chester.

"Mrs. Kenna has things to do," said Matt.

"Only a visit to the dressmaker's, and that can wait. I don't mind, really, Marshal. I'd like to help," said Ivy.

"Alright," said Matt.

"My mare," said France. "She's had nothing but grass to eat since I left Wichita, and she could use a rubdown. Albeit she fared better than myself, for I've not had a crumb in five days."

"I'll take your horse to Grimmick's," said Chester. "Moss'll fix 'er up."

"Get Doc too, would you, Chester?" said Matt.

"Yes, sir."

"The coffee smells glorious," said France as Matt helped him to a chair.

"I'll bring you a cup," said Matt.

"Have you any sugar and cream?"

Matt and Chester didn't drink milk, and only happened to have a pitcher of fresh cream and a bag of crushed sugar cane as Chester had gone berry picking the day before. They'd eaten all the berries with Doc's help, so Matt had no food in the office to give France.

"You need a sight more than coffee, Mr. France. I will fetch you a basket from Delmonico's," said Ivy, as Matt added a heaping spoon of sugar and a generous dollop of cream to a steaming cup.

"You are an angel of mercy, Mrs. Kenna," said France.

Matt poured himself a cup, leaving out the cream and sugar. He drank his coffee black and ate his berries plain.

France was breathing hard, pausing to gasp after each sip of coffee, and his hands trembled. "I suppose Doc Adams informed you of my condition, Marshal. I suppose all of Dodge knows."

"Just about. I'm sorry, France. Doc didn't tell me you were sick 'til you left town last year, and we thought you . . . wouldn't come back," said Matt.

"You mean you thought I would die soon."

"I guess."

"Why I am still alive, I do not know. Times the pain is so bad I want to kill myself, but I am afraid it would affect my eternal reward, which cannot be so great as it is," said France. "I've no more digitalis tablets or laudanum. There was no time to buy more from the doctor in Wichita before I fled."

"You fled?" said Matt.

"Yes. I hate running from anyone, but I had no choice, Marshal. The young fellow who called me out was slow and drunk, otherwise in my weakened state I never would have outdrawn him. I had to shoot him as he drew first, and he died at once. He was the son of a rich cattle buyer in town, as fate would have it. And the townsmen who patronize the Wichita saloons all hate me as I am so lucky. I escaped in great haste with four- thousand winnings in my inside vest pocket, you see. I had to leave my other clothes behind at the hotel," said France.

"The townsmen try to rob you, did they?" said Matt.

France nodded. "They moved in on me there in the barroom, a big gang of them, and they said Dex's father, Nimrod Graves, would hire a gunman to bushwhack me. Dex was the young fellow I had to kill.

"So I held the crowd off with my gun. Fortunately, there is a livery directly next to that saloon, and the stableman had grown fond of me as well-bred folks are wont to do. He was at the saloon that day, and he slipped out the side door and reappeared a moment later with a rifle. The crowd was made up of ordinary men, Marshal, and as many as packed the barroom, they were afraid to take on two fellows ready to start shooting, so there was no more gunplay, thank heaven," said France. He chose not to relate how in front of the would-be robbers he had begged to take the stableman's razor kit, promising to leave fifty cents on the man's bunk at the livery.

"What happened to Boni?" said Matt.

"I told her as we rode in the stagecoach. The coach you threw me in that day, remember, Marshal?"

"I didn't throw ya," Matt objected. "I handled you easy as I recollect it."

"Perhaps. I was most distressed at any rate. You told Boni to hold onto me and I'd be alright. I let her know I was dying as she held me in her arms, and she gently ordered me to disembark in Wichita. She said she would travel to St. Louis, and I have not seen her since," said France.

"Sorry to hear it," said Matt.

France shrugged. "Mrs. Kenna is prettier by far than Boni, and she is a lady, is she not? Not that I need ask. A gentleman like myself always recognizes a lady. Boni was no lady. A saloon gal who shared my bed, and required no seduction on my part to do it."

"Mrs. Kenna is a widow lady, but you didn't know that," said Matt.

"I make no pretense as to my scruples, Marshal. I never have." France's tired handsome face brightened. "What a wonderful stroke of luck for me, though."

"How old are you, France?" said Matt.

"Thirty-two. A great age for one who's had a weak heart since infancy. Why?"

"Mrs. Kenna is forty-three," said Matt.

"_Really. _Why, she looks younger than I am. Her face is so sweet and pure. The age difference means nothing to me. Such a woman will look attractive no matter how long she lives. She is not all white, is she. Her face is a lovely light-tan color and her hair is very curly. Most becoming, how she wears it loose to her shoulders, and there's a pretty roundness to her features in exquisite harmony with her face," said France. "What is her first name?"

"Ivy," said Matt.

"Ivy Kenna," France said dreamily. He frowned, his wistful expression abruptly fading. "Marshal, is Tiller Evans still about?"

"Evans was knifed to death in a drunken brawl at The Lady Gay," said Matt.

France looked relieved. "Then I won't be bothered by _his _past grudge, anyway. I must presume on your hospitality and ask you to house me in your jail for my protection, Marshal. The stableman in Wichita said Nimrod Graves is a vengeful man who'd hire a gunman to track me down, like the townsmen there told me. That is why I didn't ride to a stage depot when I fled. I figured the gunman would follow the stage routes, and he will calculate I stopped here in Dodge. Were I stronger, I'd look around town for him and call him out, but I'm afraid I am quite helpless at the moment."

"The gunman might trail you here," said Matt. "If this Graves even hired a gunman to kill you. If he did and the man shows in town, we'll find out soon enough. You can bunk in the near cell there, meanwhile."

France nodded his thanks, then his eyes closed, his face went slack and he fell gracefully from his chair to the floor, landing with a soft thump. Matt rose from the table and opened the door to the near cell. He picked France up and laid him on the bunk in the cell, unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie.

Matt stood looking a moment at his pale face. France had the sort of exceptional good looks that gave even men pause, the only irregularity in his features being a markedly thin top lip dissimilar to a fuller bottom one, and an air of neatness surrounded him despite his mussed suit and coating of prairie dust. If he was expiring of a failed heart as he lay there, Matt could do nothing about it. A proud man, France had shown no sign of the pain he suffered other than labored breathing and tremulous hands.

Matt heard the front door open, but it wasn't Doc. A woman's steps and the aroma of chicken soup told the marshal that Mrs. Kenna had returned from Delmonico's with food for the sick man.

"He passed out," said Matt.

"Oh no. The poor man." Ivy put the basket of food on the table and moved to the cell.

"He's very ill, Mrs. Kenna. It's not just fatigue and inanition. He has a bad heart. Doc said France had two months to live last time he was in town," said Matt.

"Well, you said he was here almost a year ago. That means there is hope for him to live even longer," said Ivy.

"Maybe. His heart could give out any time. He might be dying as we speak."

Ivy put her hand on Matt's arm. "He said I made him feel stronger."

Matt looked down into her shining dark eyes. She was a striking woman with the sweet unlined face of a girl, and he forgot to answer her.

Ivy stepped into the cell, sat on the bunk where France lay, took his hand in one of hers and stroked his hair with her other hand. His eyes opened. "You have revived me once more, my angel," he said.

Ivy smiled, holding his hand and caressing his hair. "Doc is come," she said as the front door opened again. "He'll tend you and then you must have some soup."

"I should be famished, but I am not at all hungry. I will try to eat," said France.

His bag in tow, Doc appeared in the doorway to the jail cells with Chester just behind, and Ivy sensed an invigorating stir in the air, a sort of bustle the two men carried in with them that warmed her within and made her feel sure. Though she felt safe and protected around Marshal Dillon, he had a quiet shadowy soberness about him, and much as she was drawn to Mr. France, he drained vigor from her as he clung to her hand.

Not that Ivy minded his illness and neediness, except that she wanted to keep him alive as long as possible. She had failed to keep Mr. Kenna alive. A white man who fell deeply in love with her, Kenna did not care that Ivy's maternal grandmother was of African ancestry. He was handsome, too, though not young and beautiful like Mr. France.

George Kenna owned substantial shares in the Santa Fe railroad and two stage lines, leaving Ivy a wealthy woman on his death. He worked hard from the time he was a little boy, and could not have slowed down in his older years if he'd wanted to, which he didn't. He caught cold and kept working, refusing to take to his bed when his cough worsened, and died of pneumonia four days later.

Ivy rose from the bunk and stepped aside as Doc entered the cell, and Doc removed his hat. "Ivy," he said. "Hello, Marcus."

"Doc Adams. You were wrong about me. I am alive," said France.

"I am wrong sometimes," said Doc, opening his bag. "Glad I was this instance. Get a cup of water, would you, Chester?" Doc took a jar of digitalis tablets from his bag, pulled the stopper and shook two in his hand. He held France's head up and put the tablets one at a time in his mouth, giving him a drink of water after each one.

Doc took out his stethoscope, frowned and shook his head as he listened to France's heart. "Is it so very bad?" said France.

Doc laid his hand on his patient's shoulder. "Well, I don't know why you're still alive, but I will do my best to keep you breathing," said Doc. He spooned tonic and a double dose of laudanum in France's mouth. "Get plenty of bed rest and regular meals, you might last a spell longer. Right now, you'll have to stay abed about a week; don't exert yourself at all. Someone will have to nurse you."

"I will nurse him, Doc," said Ivy.

"I hoped you would, Mrs. Kenna. May I call you Ivy?" said France.

"If I may call you Marcus."

"Chester." Matt motioned his friend out of the jail to the office and led him to the window. "France thinks there's a gunman after him. He had to kill a young fella who called him out in Wichita, and the townsfolk there said the man's father would pay to have him shot for it."

"My goodness," said Chester. "It's a shame, a nice feller like France troubled thataway, him bein' so sick an' all. Mrs. Kenna'll be a comfort to 'im anyhow."

"I don't know as I'll let Mrs. Kenna tend him if a man comes to town gunnin' for him. It might not be safe for her," said Matt. "Keep a sharp eye out for anyone looks like a gunman, Chester, if he asks after France, particular."

While Chester told Ivy he put the chicken soup and biscuits for France to warm on the stove, then put on his hat and went out, a stranger rode into town from the plains east of Dodge. Clad in dungarees and a denim shirt, of middling height and build, neither handsome or unattractive, he had the sort of ordinary face, voice and gait that is easily forgotten or mistaken for that of any of a vast number of men.

His eyes were brown, their shape unremarkable. The one aspect of his eyes that took folks aback was a thing he could not hide or alter, though it struck him whenever he looked in the glass. Although he had no need of spectacles, his eyes did not reflect light, nor did they have any light of their own. From his earliest memory, his eyes had looked dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Keen at calculating a man's profession from his looks, Kitty figured the stranger for a cow hand or drifter. She doubted he was a drover, though the trail herds were coming through town since the spring thaw. Clannish by nature, drovers tended to drink and play cards by the outfit together. Kitty lost interest in the stranger before he reached the bar.

"What'll it be," said Sam.

"Beer," said the stranger. He pulled a dime from his pocket and slapped it on the bar. The saloon was crowded and a lot of gals worked the tables. Those not serving drinks were chatting or sparkin'. The stranger wanted to take a gal upstairs for about a half-hour after his beer. He wasn't particular when it came to women, but all except one attended to a man already, and as the stranger's prowess was with his gun, not his fists, he did not try to horn in.

After his long ride from Wichita, following stage routes and stopping at depots, he needed a rest for the job ahead. The rich man who hired him assured the stranger that he would write to his informants in Dodge—bandits, cattle and horse thieves who'd evaded prison with his help—to let him know the job was done. The stranger had rested four days at a quiet hotel as far away from Front Street and the marshal's office, and the saloons and dance halls as possible, going out only to the restaurant nearby, sleeping long hours, playing solitaire and reading the _Dodge City_ _Times_.

Now the time came to ask questions, but he wanted a woman first. The one lone woman stood at the end of the bar. She was dressed like a hostess, her green silk dress trimmed with silver lace and red feathers around the plunging neckline and armholes too showy and revealing for a lady's garment, and her pretty face was painted. Ladies didn't frequent barrooms, and the stranger preferred scarlet women anyway. And she was the prettiest here.

He picked up his beer, moved to the end of the bar and tipped his hat to Kitty. "Ma'am," he said.

Kitty hadn't noticed his lifeless eyes from across the barroom. She'd seen many men with eyes like his, some of which gave her a moment of fright or a creeping chill. This man did not scare her or make her skin prickle. His eyes just looked strange. "Hello," she said, without a trace of a smile.

"I'm looking for a woman to show me a good time upstairs there. Won't take long, a few minutes," he said.

"Oh?" Kitty knew she wore an unfriendly look, so she softened her face and thought of helping this stranger, who seemed rather forlorn, though she couldn't tell that by his eyes, which showed no expression or feeling at all. "I'm Kitty Russell," she said. "What's your name?"

"Jacks."

"You have another name, Jacks?"

"Just Jacks."

"Alright, Jacks. There're a lot of real nice girls here. Soon as you see one standin' at the bar by herself, why don't you go to her and buy her a drink. Whether she goes upstairs with you or not is up to her. You might haveta ask a few of 'em before you find one who offers her services. While you're waiting, have another beer on the house when you finish that. Tell Sam it's on me," said Kitty.

"Thanks," said Jacks. "Do you offer your services?"

"Sorry," said Kitty.

Jacks looked around the barroom. There were still no girls standing or sitting alone, so he had a wait ahead of him. Maybe the Long Branch would close for the night before he got a girl. Every time a man left the saloon and freed up a woman, another man quickly engaged her. Jacks was not forceful, nor fast-moving except with his gun, so he decided to visit a house of ill repute, but first he'd ask Kitty some questions.

"You heard tell of a fellow name of Marcus France, come to Dodge of late? Handsome gent, blue eyes and light hair? Looks kinda sickly," said Jacks.

Kitty knew France was back in town and bunking at the jail. Matt told her a gunman might come looking to kill the gambler, Chester revealed that France and the widow Ivy Kenna fell in love, and Doc said France remained very ill from his bad heart. "I haven't seen a man like that in here," said Kitty.

"But you heard he's in town."

"Mister, folks tell me about other folks coming to town more times than I can count every day. I forget about most of 'em in the space of a minute," said Kitty.

"Uh-huh," said Jacks. "France is in Dodge alright. Think I'll pass on the free beer. Pleasure, Kitty." He tipped his hat again and left the Long Branch.

Kitty hurriedly put on a hat, wrapped a silvery silk wrap round her shoulders, collected a reticule and headed for the marshal's office. She looked for Jacks as she walked but he was nowhere about.

Matt sat dozing behind the desk in the usual position he took for a nap—his chair tilted against the wall, fingers linked on his stomach, long legs crossed at the ankles resting on the desk. The door to the jail was open, and Kitty saw France sitting up in bed in the near cell, supported by two pillows behind his back, fully dressed to his collar, tie and boots. His gun belt with the six-shooter in the holster was on the floor by the bunk. The cell door stood open, and Ivy Kenna sat on the end of the bed while Chester sat in a chair, their voices raised in cheerful conversation with France.

Matt woke from his nap, swung his legs off the desk and rose from his chair. "Kitty. Something wrong?"

"I think so," said Kitty.

"Sit down," said Matt, pulling out a chair from the table. "You want some water? Coffee?"

"Coffee, please."

"Chester, Miss Kitty has come." Marcus France's dulcet voice touched Kitty with a pleasant little thrill even as she worried for him, and for Matt and Chester having to protect him if Jacks showed at the marshal's office. She turned in her chair and gazed at France's smiling face. She remembered he was handsome, but had forgotten how handsome.

"Hello, Mr. France," said Kitty. "Hello, Ivy."

Chester stood up. "Miss Kitty."

"Chester. I guess you all need to hear what I have to say," said Kitty. "I just talked to a man named Jacks at the Long Branch. He asked about you, Mr. France. I didn't tell him you were in Dodge, but he figured it out. I think he's a gunman." Kitty described Jacks' commonplace looks and dead eyes.

"He is the one Nimrod Graves hired to kill me," said France.

"To _kill _you. Mercy," said Ivy.

"I saw no need to trouble you about this, my dear," said France. "I've had four days to recover from my flight from Wichita and feel much better now, thanks to your loving care, and Doc's as well of course. I shall go out on Front Street and wait for this Jacks to see me, and call him out."

He started to rise from the bunk, and Ivy put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back on the pillows. France smiled nervously and covered her hands with his. "You are so very strong, Ivy," he said.

"You mustn't challenge that man to a gunfight, Marcus," she said. "You are too sick to attempt it. Let Marshal Dillon handle him."

"Mrs. Kenna is right, France," said Matt. "Stay in bed."

"Marshal, I hate running and hiding. I told you that. I only fled in Wichita as I was too ill to fight all those men who accused me of cheating at cards. My strength is restored. Somewhat. Jacks is only one man, and if he is fast . . . well, so am I," said France.

"In your condition, this man could likely outdraw you even if he switched gun hands. You know I don't hold with gunplay in this town, France. I didn't let you fight Tiller Evans, and you're not fighting this Jacks either, weak as you are, particular." Matt picked up France's gun belt from the floor.

"France is leaving here on the three o'clock train, Mrs. Kenna," said the marshal. "Doesn't matter where he goes. Just gotta be far from Dodge."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. Hand over my gun, Marshal," said France.

"He may not fare so well with no one to tend him on the journey, though," said Matt.

"_Stop talking over me as though I am a child," _said France. "Give me my gun, Marshal, or I shall wrest it from you."

"Good heavens, Mr. France, you know you cain't do that," said Chester.

"I will travel with him, Marshal," said Ivy. "And stay with him long as he needs me."

"That may be the rest of my life, my dear," said France. "A year or a day, I could die any time. A respectable lady such as yourself, if you are to be my companion and nurse, you must become my wife as well. But I will not leave Dodge until _I _decide to do so. I must face down that gunman first."

"I'll find Jacks and lock him up about ten days so he'll never find you, France," said Matt.

"_No. _You made me run once, Marshal. You won't do this to me again; I won't let you."

"You have time to pack a satchel if you do it now, Mrs. Kenna," said Matt. "Don't worry about France, here. I'll see he gets on the train with you."

Ivy rose from her seat on the cell bunk, took France's hand and pressed it to her face. "Please do as Marshal Dillon says, Marcus," she said. France stared straight ahead without answering, his face set like a finely hewn sculpture and his hand limp between her palms. He had killed men to defend himself and goaded men to draw their guns on him; he'd told her so. Yet even now when he was so distressed, his eyes showed no wildness or anger. There was a gentleness about France despite his pride and mulish will, a frailness of spirit at odds with the vividness of his eyes which he masked with a debonair bearing. Ivy sensed it when she touched him and looked into his eyes, felt him pulling vitality from her into himself.

France's fingers closed around hers, and without meeting her eyes, he moved her hands to his mouth and kissed them. "Go along now, darling," he said. "And try not to worry about me. I shan't live much longer one way or the other."

"You better go, too, Kitty," said Matt.

Kitty linked her arm through Ivy's. "I'll help you get ready for the trip," said Kitty. "Matt and Chester will look after Mr. France."

As soon as the women left, closed the front door behind them and walked past the windows, France rose from the bunk, tugged his vest and suit jacket in place, smoothed his hair, patted his collar and fiddled with his tie.

"You're not going anywhere until the three o'clock train comes in, France," said Matt. "Chester, put his gun belt in the desk and get the jail key."

"Yes, sir."

France lunged toward the cell door. Matt grabbed him and he struggled in the marshal's grip, breathing hard. France's eyelids drooped, sweat broke out on his face and he slumped against Matt. Matt half-carried him to the bunk and helped him lie down, then stepped out of the cell. Chester closed the cell door and locked it.

"No please," France gasped.

"Chester, get a shotgun and watch the windows close," said Matt. "Stay here and guard him 'til I get back."

"Marshal, please let me out," France faintly pleaded, as Matt strapped on his gun belt and put on his hat. "I cannot stand this. Unlock the cell."

"Calm him down, would you, Chester," said the marshal, opening the door to Front Street. "Doc said it'll strain his heart if he gets overwrought." Matt went out.

"Jest rest easy, Mr. France," Chester soothed. "Everthin' will work out."

"I am not a coward, Chester," said France. "Marshal Dillon is making me out a coward. Again."

"He's jest savin' you from gittin' shot ta death," said Chester.

"I mustn't let him do it," France whispered, his eyes closing. I must save my own self." His breathing slowed, his mouth parted and the tenseness faded from his face.

"Mr. France?" Chester said. France made no reply, his chest rising and falling in regular rhythm. "Poor feller. Looks like Doc's tablets is workin' leastways," Chester said softly.

Matt knew that the man leaning on the hitching rail in front of Delmonico's was the gunman Jacks. He looked closely at every man that passed him, clearly waiting to sight his target.

The marshal put his hands in his pockets and whistled tunelessly as he approached the man, not looking at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw the man turn and watch him, and he strolled on without a sideways glance.

The man turned his back to Matt and leaned on the hitching rail again. Matt swiftly pivoted, snatched the man's gun from the holster and took a long step back. The man whirled around and looked up at Matt out of eyes like unpolished stones. "Hey," said the man. "My gun. I didn't do anything."

Matt tucked the man's gun in his belt. "What's your name, Mister."

"Jacks."

"You're goin' to jail, Jacks. Get movin'."

"What for."

"You're gunnin' for Marcus France."

"You got no proof. I never seen France."

"I said get movin'." Matt took hold of Jacks' arm and shoved him, and he stumbled.

"Ow. Alright easy," said Jacks.

Chester was sitting behind the desk when Matt came in with Jacks. A shotgun lay on the desktop in front of him. "That Jacks, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester, rising from the chair.

"It's him. How's France?" said Matt.

"Sleepin'. I best give 'im 'is digitalis dose 'fore you put 'im on the train." Chester took the jail key from its peg and opened the unoccupied cell.

"Is that France in the cell?" said Jacks. "What did he do."

"Nothing. He's in there for his own protection," said Matt.

"To protect him from me," said Jacks. He stepped into the cell and Chester locked him in. "He's sick, isn't he. That's why you're protecting him from me."

"I'd protect anyone from a man like you," said Matt. "You belong in a cage. And there'll be no gunfighting in this town if I can stop it."

Jacks seated himself on the bunk. "Can I have some coffee?"

"I'll fetch it, Mr. Dillon," said Chester.

"He's awake," said Jacks, staring at France.

France sat up on the bunk and stared back at Jacks, as though looking at some strange animal species he'd never seen. Jacks' eyes fascinated him. "What are you looking at," said Jacks.

"Nothing," said France.

Carrying two cups of coffee, Chester returned to the cells. He put a cup for Jacks on the floor just inside the bars, reached for the jail key to unlock the other cell, and handed a cup to France. "Mr. Dillon, you want I should lock Mr. France up again?" said Chester.

"No," said France.

"Leave the door open, Chester. He can't fight Jacks now," said Matt.

"I am not leaving Dodge until I have it out with this man, Marshal, so you may as well turn him loose," said France.

"France, you are getting on that train with Mrs. Kenna if I have to carry you to the depot. Just like I toted you to the stage when Evans was gunnin' for ya," said Matt.

France sipped his coffee and looked up at the marshal. Matt saw only obstinacy, a shade of fear and a mild depression in his large clear eyes, which the marshal figured were traits rooted in the man himself. Matt understood why France was a lucky gambler. It was hard to get a purchase on the workings of his mind, yet Matt doubted France was hiding his feelings at the moment. Rather they were naturally muted, as though he was fading away. France turned his head away from Matt's probing gaze, and the marshal felt unaccountably guilty.

"Be time for the three o'clock 'fore long," said Chester. "I best pack up 'is medicinals." He shook two digitalis tablets on a clean cloth, then stoppered the jar and put it with the bottles of laudanum and tonic and a silver teaspoon in a sturdy leather bag with compartments and copper trimming which Ivy had purchased solely for that purpose. As he watched Chester carefully pack the medicine, Matt thought it fortunate that France had some five-thousand dollars to his name and Ivy was independently wealthy, for France would have nothing but the finest things.

Chester carried the tablets on the cloth with a dipper of water to France. He held out his palm, and Chester dropped the tablets in it. France tossed back the tablets, took the dipper and drained it while Chester waited, then handed it back without a word or glance at Chester. France had stopped thanking Chester for his attentive ministrations shortly after the gambler's arrival at the marshal's office. He seemed to expect being waited on, and waiting on him with no expression of gratitude in return seemed not to trouble Chester.

"Alright, let's go, France," said Matt.

"My gun," said France.

"Sorry. I'll pay ya for it," said the marshal.

"I don't want your money," France said bitterly.

Like the gunman Jacks in the cell across from him, France was no fighter, except with a six-shooter. He sat still on the bunk as Matt moved close to him, his blue gaze steadily meeting the marshal's.

"I said let's go," Matt ordered. "You're getting on that train."

"No," said France. "You did this to me before. You have no right." Matt hated what he was about to do, but the walk from the marshal's office to the depot took some minutes and he saw no other way.


	3. Chapter 3

France would fare easier if he didn't see it coming. Although he proved Doc's prediction of his death wrong by eight months or so and counting, Doc said his heart could quit any time. No matter, the marshal knew he'd never quite forgive himself if he finished France off. Matt decided to take that chance, rather than wrestle with the man all the way to the train depot and miss getting him on the three o'clock.

Matt swung a punch, and France fell back senseless on the bunk. Chester startled. _"Mr. Dillon." _

"Only way to get him there in time," said Matt.

Jacks laughed. _"You shet up 'fore I bust yer nose!" _Chester snapped at the gunman. Jacks stopped laughing.

Matt picked France up. "Gracious, Mr. Dillon, it's jest like ya done when he was in town afore. Only then you took 'im to the stage, an' slung 'im 'crost your shoulders 'stead of carryin' 'im in yer arms," said Chester.

"Longer walk to the train. I don't want to risk the blood rushing to his head or some such thing. I think Doc would want me to tote 'im this way," Matt explained.

"Reckon you're right 'bout that, sir." Chester took the bag of medicinals and put on his hat, and they headed for the depot.

Carrying the gambler was no strain on Matt; he didn't even break a sweat. Though passersby looked curiously at France as Matt and Chester walked to the train station, they posed no questions. The townsfolk knew that Marshal Dillon, neighborly manners notwithstanding, would give them no real answers, nor accept their offers of help calculated to discover what went on. And visitors to Dodge, seeing the marshal's sober determined face and decided gait, lacked the boldness to ask him anything.

"Yonder's Doc," said Chester.

Doc knew from a ways down the boardwalk that France was not dead, as Matt wouldn't carry the man if he was. Had he died, the undertaker's man would drive the body in a wagon bed to prepare it for burial. Doc changed directions and walked with Matt and Chester. "Where're you takin' _him, _Matt," said Doc.

"To the train depot. He's goin' on a journey with Mrs. Kenna."

"But he's senseless," said Doc, peering at France's wan face.

"He'll wake up in a short spell," said Matt. Doc jerked his head up at the marshal.

"Oh, you dun need ta worry 'bout 'im, Doc," Chester reassured. "I give 'im 'is tablets 'fore we left, an' got them with the laudanum 'n tonic in this bag here. Mrs. Kenna will take good care of 'im. They're gittin' married."

"You don't say so. Well, the widow Kenna's a fine woman. I just hope she don't grieve past bearing when France dies on her. She lost George only two years ago," said Doc.

"Ivy Kenna's strong as they come. George left her well-fixed, and she won't want for eligible suitors when France passes on. Not on account of her money, either," said Matt.

"Pretty and sweet as she is? I'll say not," said Doc.

"We got here just in time, Mr. Dillon. There's the train," said Chester. Kitty and Ivy stood waiting near the tracks.

"Marcus." Ivy pulled off a traveling glove and anxiously stroked France's hair. "Did he faint away, Marshal? I was afraid this might happen. The walk must have been too much for him, poor dear." France moaned and moved his head against Matt's arm, his brows crinkling.

"Uuhh . . . ." Matt looked into Ivy's soft, shining dark eyes.

"Well, Matt?" said Doc.

"Mr. France didn't faint away," Kitty said dryly. "Matt knocked him out."

"_Oh. _Well, you did what was necessary to get him here, surely, Marshal," said Ivy. "Marcus is just that stubborn."

"You're right, Mrs. Kenna. I'm sorry," said Matt.

"Now, don't you apologize." Ivy stopped stroking France's hair to lay her hand on Matt's arm. "I know it wasn't easy for you, and I am glad you did it. You saved Marcus from getting shot to death by that gunman."

"You best get him on the train, Matt," said Kitty. "Ivy's trunk is already in the freight car."

France moaned again. "You have any smelling salts in your reticule, Ivy? Just pass the vial under his nose when Matt gets him seated. He'll come round," said Doc.

Carrying France, Matt boarded the train. Chester handed Ivy the bag of medicinals, and she reached out and took his hand. "Good-bye, Chester," she said.

"Bye, Mrs. Kenna."

"Doc," said Ivy.

"Take care, Ivy."

Ivy and Kitty hugged and said their goodbyes, then Ivy handed the medicine bag to the porter, lifted her skirts clear of the boarding steps with one hand and put her other hand in the porter's white-gloved one as he helped her into the train. Matt sat France in a window seat and Ivy sat beside him. "I'll wait and make sure he doesn't get off the train, Mrs. Kenna," said Matt.

"Thank you, Marshal." Ivy put her arm around France, took the smelling salts and swiped the vial under his nose as Matt stood by watching.

France's bright blue eyes opened wide, at once keenly aware of his surroundings. "I am getting off this blasted train, confound it," he declared, and made to stand up.

"Stay where you are, France," Matt ordered.

Ivy wrapped her arms tightly round France and held him in his seat. He struggled to free himself, mindful in spite of her strength that she was a beautiful woman and he'd fallen in love with her. Much as he wanted to escape the train before it left the station, he took care not to thrash about too much and hurt Ivy.

"_Please, Mrs. Kenna," _France gasped. "Pardon the crudeness, but you are strong as a lumberman, my lady." His infirm heart pounded painfully, his head buzzed and his limbs failed him. He was too weak to overpower her, yet her very presence revived his body and his spirits. She was like a goddess. A ravishing sun goddess.

Ivy kissed and caressed him, heedless of how scandalous she looked. Even had she already married France, people would think her conduct disgraceful. She didn't care. "I love you, Marcus France," she said. "Please come away with me. We will travel to Boston and stay in Tremont House. And marry. And do nothing the spring and summer long but rest at the seashore."

France embraced her, pressing his face into the thick, springy dark curls under her hat. "Oh Ivy. I love you too. So _very _much," he said. He pulled away enough to look into her eyes, his own moist. "I shall go with you wherever you like, my love. For us. The rest of it no longer matters."

Smiling, Ivy took his hand, feeling her face grow hot. The other passengers were staring and grinning at her and Marcus. He gazed at her, seeming not to notice.

"Marcus and I are beholden to you, Marshal," said Ivy.

"My pleasure, Mrs.— uh, well, Mrs. France, soon to be," said Matt.

"Yes yes, we are much obliged, Marshal. You best get off before the train pulls out," said France, not looking at Matt.

"Marcus. He really is grateful to you, Marshal," said Ivy.

"That's alright. Best of luck to you, France." Matt tipped his hat to Ivy and left the train.

Exquisite as a china figurine and pretty as a rose in the sunlight, Kitty stood waiting for him as he descended the steps. Matt returned her smile and put his arm around her.

"France wake up alright, Matt?" said Doc.

"Yep. Calmed himself straightaway when Ivy held onto him and kissed him."

"Good to hear," said Doc.

"Where you goin' now, Doc," said Chester.

"Thought I'd play some billiards. Join me?"

"Ah'll stop by the office first to see if that gunman Jacks needs some water or anythin'. He looks kinda poorly ta me, Doc," said Chester.

"Poorly?" said Doc. "How so."

"Fevered like. Only jest settin' in, maybe."

"Well, I may as well check him out on our way to the pool room," said Doc.

"You know what I _really _like about you, Matt?" said Kitty, watching Doc and Chester walk away.

"What's that, Kitty."

"You're not sickly."

"_Sickly. _I should say not."

"So many men are," said Kitty. "Like poor Marcus France. And they're always dying, too, like Ivy's first husband. The dime novels and plays make us women out to be the delicate ones, but the men get sicker than we do."

"Maybe so, Kitty."

"I'm just glad you're healthy," said Kitty. "Doc and Chester, too. You got anything to do, Matt?"

"Not particular," said Matt.

"Walk me to the Long Branch. We'll have a beer," said Kitty.

"Alright."

From the time he put his arm around her at the depot until now as they walked to the Long Branch, Matt had grown distracted by some trouble in his head and drifted off from Kitty. Bodily close to her, his arm still encircled her waist, yet his blue eyes were darkened and distant, his face sobered.

"What is it, Matt? Something's bothering you," said Kitty.

"Jacks. I can't justify holding him more than ten days. That gives France and Ivy more than enough time to reach Boston with a couple of days to spare, and Jacks will never find them. He's a gun for hire, Kitty. One of the worst breeds of murderer. He's not wanted, and I know of no witnesses to testify he ever killed anyone. And in ten days I have to turn him loose."

"Well, there's no point tormenting yourself over it. There's nothing you can do," said Kitty.

"Sometimes I wonder why I wear this badge."

Kitty rested her head against his arm. "Even when the bad ones get away, you help folks all the time. Like France. He may not be a good man, but he's a decent one. Weak as he is, Jacks would have outdrawn him sure. You saved France's life, Matt. _Twice._"

The marshal's face softened and he grinned a little as he fondly regarded Kitty. "I'll try and remember that when I let Jacks out of his cage," said Matt.

_**M**_************************************************************************

An agonizing headache struck Jacks shortly after sundown, and he quickly sank into delirium. Doc diagnosed brain fever. The gunman was severely ill a fortnight. Hot to the touch, he tossed about, arched his back and went rigid and screamed, his eyes rolling up in his head so only bloodshot whites showed. Doc chloroformed him and packed him in ice, completely covering his head with chunks of it, and kept him that way an hour. Jacks streamed sweat, then his face turned grayish white, his lips tinted blue.

Doc told Chester to remove the ice, then he rubbed Jacks down with a soapy towel soaked in warm water, dried him off and dressed him in clean underwear. Jacks opened his eyes and gazed peacefully at Doc from his cell bunk.

"My goodness, Doc," said Chester. "His eyes done changed." Jacks' eyes were no longer dead. They mirrored light and feeling, but were empty of reason as the eyes of a new babe.

While Jacks convalesced in jail, Doc sent a wire to a colleague in Pennsylvania who was also a philanthropist. The physician agreed to pay Jacks' board at Friends Asylum in Philadelphia, an institution specializing in moral treatment, and Doc hired a trusted friend who worked as a guard to travel with Jacks to the place.

Two weeks after Jacks' departure, Matt had just finished reading a letter when Chester rushed in looking flustered. Chester looked that way when anything excited him, whether his news was good or bad, or vitally important only in his own head, and he was easily agitated. Savoring a feeling of warm pleasure of the deeply satisfying sort which touched him but rarely, Matt gave his partner an inattentive glance and resumed thinking about the letter.

"Remember the name of Nimrod Graves, Mr. Dillon? I jest recollect it maself on account of it's peculiar," said Chester.

"Graves," said Matt. "He hired Jacks to kill Marcus France. Graves' son Dex was the man France had to kill in a gunfight in Wichita. I can't wire the sheriff there to arrest Graves 'cause I have no proof of it. Only France's claim."

"Yeah. Well, you don't haveta worry 'bout ole Graves hiring gunmen no more, Mr. Dillon," said Chester.

Matt looked at him expectantly, and Chester paused to draw out the thrill of the moment, which always irritated the marshal. _"Well?" _said Matt.

"A drifter tole Moss an' Moss tole me. Only jest. The stage was comin' into Wichita, horses a gallopin', an' ole Nimrod Graves he done staggered out from the saloon thar drunk as kin be. Wandered out in the street right in front of that coach. Horses trampled 'im an' the coach it rolled over 'im. Time the shotgun man jumped down ta take a look at 'im, Graves was a'ready dead," said Chester.

"He went fast at least," said Matt.

"Yessir. Turrible way to go howsoever."

"I wouldn't wish a death like that on the worst of men, but you're right, Chester. Graves won't be hiring any more gunmen."

"Who's the letter from, Mr. Dillon?"

"Mrs. Ivy France," said Matt.

"_Oh. _Then Mr. France is still alive an' they married," said Chester.

"She says France is stronger, now," said Matt. "He's not working, just soakin' up sea air and seeing the city's best doctor. Ivy says he gained about ten pounds, and they're very happy in Boston."

"Doc 'n Miss Kitty will like to hear that," said Chester.

"With a good woman's love, the gentleman's luck may run quite a spell," said the marshal.

END


End file.
